


Drowning

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Anxiety, Father-Son Relationship, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Panic, Present Tense, Sensory Overload, Short One Shot, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-28 21:40:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20973467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Jameson has trouble adjusting to the constant sensory input of the modern world.





	Drowning

Jameson can hardly stand to breathe—no, he can hardly even stand, tumbling under wave after wave of input and information and noise. The _constant_ _noise_. He cannot fathom how greedy this modern world is for its noise—as if they need to drown out the silence.

In silence, he is drowning.

Vehicles are honking, screeching, backfiring, roaring and rumbling. Streetlights flash. Advertisements in brazen colors and blinking signs on every window of every building. Strains of music tangle together from the doors of competing restaurants. The clashing smells of food, grease, petrol and cigarette smoke carrying further down the block could make one ill.

In the park nearby children are laughing and crying and shrieking and shoving each other, their feet thundering as they run through the hissing sprinklers. Their parents chatter and gossip on the creaking benches. Dogs are barking, yapping, shaking, panting, and growling, rattling the fence around their play area.

Jameson chokes up when he feels his telephone buzz in his pocket. There are _so many_ telephones; they’re everywhere, all around him, ringing, beeping, blipping. Somewhere nearby there is the white flash of a camera. He stops up short, eyes blinded, and suddenly everyone is bumping him, jostling, touching. The stench of perfume and deodorant and sweat and body heat, closing in on him. The wind is picking up, whistling over it all, cold, unceasing, its pitch feverishly rising, ri_sing, rising, rising_—

When he first feels arms lock around him, he struggles. It’s the tactile equivalent of scratching in the walls, squeaking styrofoam, sandpaper tearing at his skin and he can’t breathe, he can’t escape, he can’t—

“Shhh…Shh.” Chase’s whisper is louder than the wind, louder than Jameson’s wild heartbeat. His shirt is soft and he smells like cocoa powder. “Hold onto me.”

Jameson buries his face against his shoulder and holds on tight.


End file.
